


Symptomatic

by apple_pi



Category: House
Genre: House - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-26
Updated: 2009-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The symptoms aren't the disease, not by a long shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symptomatic

**Author's Note:**

> Porn. Means as much or as little as you want it to. Set in the first season.

"I'm not nearly as pretty as Julie," House said afterward. He sounded thoughtful.

Wilson turned his head. "That is completely true." He yawned and turned onto his side, facing House. "On the other hand, you put out a lot more." He closed his eyes.

"That's just sad." House smirked and looked at Wilson for a while. "So is the cheating a side effect of the not-putting-out, or is the not-putting-out a side effect of the cheating?"

"Uh." Wilson's eyes opened again, one eyebrow quirking.

"What?" House asked innocently.

"Enlightened self-interest would dictate that you stop that line of questioning right there," Wilson informed him.

"Enlightened self-interest would dictate that I stop lots of things." House's face was difficult to read in the dim light: mobile mouth just a line, eyes a gleam in the darkness. "Pissing everyone off. Fooling around with my married – male – promiscuous – best friend. Taking drugs. Speaking of which..." He turned away, grunting as he heaved himself over and reached for the bottle of pills on the night table.

Wilson watched as House dry-swallowed a tablet. "I've never been able to do that," he said aloud.

"What?" House flopped back down and looked at him. "The pill thing?" Wilson nodded, and House smiled again, a brief, humorless stretch of his lips. "You just need more practice."

Wilson didn't reply.

"So." House reached down and squeezed Wilson's soft, sticky penis. "You staying for another round, or do you need to get home to your pretty wife?"

"You don't have to be all bitter and witty at the moment," Wilson said; he kept his voice faintly amused. "There's nobody here but me." He inched closer, and ran one hand down House's side. Bony ribs like the slats of Venetian blinds, then the dip of his side. Wilson rested his hand there, on House's waist, and waited for a reply.

"That's what you think," House said. He waggled his eyebrows. "There's a live feed of this going straight to the Net."

"HouseCam," Wilson said.

"Exactly. $39.95 a month for a full-access subscription. I have to maintain my sex, drugs and rock n' roll lifestyle somehow."

"And here I thought you did it by getting your drugs for free and screwing around with me."

"You forgot my legendary world tours." House rolled onto his back with a yawn, and Wilson's hand slid over his moving body, coming to rest on his abdomen. "If you're nice to me you can be my roadie."

"I'm very nice to you," Wilson said. He looked across House's profile at the red numbers on the alarm clock. "I don't have to go home."

House's eyes were too close when he turned his head and looked at Wilson, and Wilson wondered if they looked that deep and that open because of the sex or because of the Vicodin. "Good," he said, and Wilson smiled, just a little.

*

"Fuck -" It sounded half like frustration and half like delirium; for once, Wilson thought, House's voice was probably reflecting exactly what he was feeling. "All right?"

Wilson nodded, concentrating on the feel of his own hand on his dick, squeezing, pulling; trying to ignore the tingling burn of House's cock, pushing into him. "I'm okay. Keep going."

House's hand tightened on his hip, and Wilson gasped involuntarily as he slid the rest of the way inside in a tight, stuttering rush. "Wilson," House said, and Wilson's eyes snapped open.

"Did you just say my _name_ during sex?" he managed, as House began moving. The pain eased almost immediately, and Wilson kept stroking his cock.

"No." House's voice sounded strained, but it was a valiant effort at normality. "I was just checking on you again."

"Next time you check on me..." Wilson's eyes closed again, and he grunted softly as House set a slow, steady rhythm, "don't call me Wilson."

"Remind you of those locker-room escapades in junior high?" House shifted, and everything got easier, suddenly; Wilson bit back a moan and moved his right hand faster. His cock was fully hard again, comfortable and heavy in his fist.

He didn't reply for a minute, concentrating on his hard-on, and on the intrusive yet pleasant feel of House sliding in and out, slick and tight and easy. "Obviously my junior high wasn't as much fun as yours," he finally replied, but the last word flattened into a groan, and House didn't bother to answer. Wilson moved his fist over his cock faster and stopped trying to talk.

"You first," House said some time later, and Wilson laughed and moaned at the same time; he felt teeth close on his shoulder and came with a hitching breath and a rush – tension-release – through his veins that left him shaking and weak, lax under the faster tempo of House's urgent movements. When House came it was nearly silently, mouth open against Wilson's shoulder and fingertips digging into his waist painfully as he shuddered and thrust three times.

"Jesus," he breathed a moment later, and pulled out. Wilson hadn't decided quite how he felt about that abrupt loss when House spoke again, over the quiet, wet sound of the condom being pulled off. "I'll give you a thousand dollars if you'll get up and call for Chinese."

"I was thinking pizza," Wilson said, and he turned his face into the pillow and breathed in the warm quiet darkness.

*

Wilson knew the clothes were protection, and he dressed carefully, most days. When House pointed it out (as he was unbuttoning Wilson's pants, actually), Wilson just shrugged. "Fuels my white-knight delusions," he said, and lay his head back against the couch cushions as House found what he'd been looking for and squeezed.

"And besides, chicks dig a man in uniform," House replied. He sounded detached, and Wilson shifted a little closer, close enough to feel House's breath against his temple. House was warm against his side, still fully dressed and Wilson knew somewhere in the back of his brain (in the part that wasn't taken up with need and heat and the _yes, please_ that he would never, ever voice aloud) that House liked that part of it, liked seeing Wilson rumpled and exposed while he himself remained clothed and controlled. Controlling.

"They really do," Wilson said. "Keep going."

"I am," House said mildly, and he did. Wilson closed his eyes and began to move in shallow counterpoint to House's hand until he felt orgasm pooling in his balls, in his lower belly. He lifted his head and looked down, then; House's hand kept moving with steady, fast strokes and Wilson huffed and came, keeping his eyes open with an effort, watching the sluggish spurt of his come spill over House's fist, messy and actually really hot – hot enough that Wilson's hips jerked up one more time and he sucked in a gasping breath.

"You're so easy," House said when he pulled his hand away.

"Chicks dig that, too," Wilson said, and he didn't bother to zip up, though he did let his head fall back again. He knew he'd be naked and on his knees between House's thighs in a few minutes. No point in tidiness now.

"I bet," House said, and he cleaned his hand with a tissue from the side table. He tossed the tissue away and sat back against the cushions, thighs sagging apart, erection pressing a ridge against the seam of his jeans. "So," he said.

"Let me just get out of this damned suit of armor," Wilson replied, and he stood up to undress the rest of the way.

"I bet that chain mail chafes like a sonofabitch," House said, and Wilson could feel his eyes as he stripped.


End file.
